Page 53

That thought sits low and hot in my gut as I turn at the wall and cut back through the lane, slicking my hair out of my eyes when I surface at the far end.

Then the door opens, and in walks Rowan.

Come on, then, little mouse. Let's see if you run again.

Fuck me, what a sight he is—shirtless, punctual, pretending he doesn't know exactly what he does to me.

He stops just inside the door, slate in one hand, towel over his arm, freezing when he spots me already in the water.

Hooking both arms over the edge of the pool, I give him a lazy little wave. "Evening, pool partner."

His eyes flash. "What are you doing here?"

I grin. "Swimming."

"You know this is my time."

I drift a little closer, smiling. "Yeah, that's half the appeal. You're so much prettier when you're pissed off."

His mouth tightens, and a flush starts climbing high over his cheekbones. "This is my slot," he snaps. "I arranged this with Professor Halvern. You shouldn't be here."

"I shouldn't." I give him a one-shouldered shrug. "But where's the fun in that?"

He huffs like he's got three different insults lined up and hates all of them, then drops his towel on the nearest chair and squares his shoulders at me like he's gearing up for a fight.

That does deeply unhelpful things to my dick.

I let my gaze drag over him openly, because subtlety feels like a wasted talent tonight. "Are you leaving? Or are you going to stay and glare at me until one of us drowns?"

His jaw works, but after a second he shakes his head. "No. This is my slot. And I…"

He trails off, but he doesn't need to finish. I know what he means.

He needs the water.

For that stubborn little heart of his. For the shoulder he's still favoring. For whatever reason keeps dragging him down here at this exact hour like clockwork.

"Come on, hop on in. The water is delicious." I smile and watch him ignore me on purpose.

He sets his multi-slate down with maddening care, folds his towel beside it, and dives in cleanly, barely making a splash as he cuts straight through the water like he can pretend I'm not here.

And fuck me, he moves in one long, precise line, shoulders rolling under the surface, body sleek beneath the gold-lit water. Every inch of him pulled taut with that same furious control that keeps making my life harder than it needs to be.

That doesn't help.

So I push off after him and take the lane beside his.

He notices, and when he surfaces at the far end, swiping wet hair back from his forehead before turning his head, he finds me cutting through the water right beside him.

His eyes narrow, and then he pushes off harder, which is exactly what I want.

I match him, and for the next two laps neither of us says a word. Just swimming hard and turning sharp, back and forth, turn for turn. His strokes get meaner every time I close the distance, mine lengthening just enough to stay beside him, then just behind, then beside him again.

It becomes a silent competition neither of us is willing to name, and somewhere along the way it stops feeling like exercise.

When I hit the wall, I watch him arrive, then turn close enough that my foot brushes his calf under the surface.

He jerks and comes up with a sharp breath. "Watch it."